WeissKreuz Where Are You Going
by LoveyouHateyou
Summary: Yohji drunk, going and coming, Aya sleepless, waiting and fretting. Yohji likes the rain. Aya is hungry for something...


**WeissKreuz - Where Are You Going**

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Warnings: male/male affection and references to sex.  
Rating: M/NC-15 for the above reasons.  
Summary: Yohji drunk, going and coming, Aya sleepless, waiting and fretting. Yohji likes the rain. Aya is hungry for something...

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Clad in a dark grey yukata, Aya sits crosslegged by the low window of his room. The muddy orange glow of the streetlamp on the opposite side of the road casts slanted beams into the darkness of his sanctuary. Layers of light, sliced into thin swathes by the bamboo blinds that are halfway down so he can see the street when he occasionally looks up from his book.

Aya holds the book in his lap. He has not paid attention to the page on which it fell open even though his finger rests on the textured paper to keep the book open. It is his collection of haiku, a reminder of the past that fell to ashes a lifetime ago. Aya does not even try to concentrate on reading; he knows it is pointless, and he will not waste any effort on it. He is busy watching the street, even though he would not admit it even to himself.

A muggy late summer afternoon has melted into a cool dusk and later, into a chill, rainy night that carries the first breath of autumn. Now it is raining out there, the glow of the lantern a shiny, smudged circle of light that reflects on the wet pavement.

Yohji likes the rain.

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When Yohji went out after the late shift, Aya could not help but look – only when Yohji was already crossing the street, bathed in sunshine… he looked breathtaking, in a sharply tailored dark blue blazer, an immaculate white shirt, unbuttoned down to his collarbone, dark grey slacks and expensive black leather shoes. The look complimented by silky fine leather gloves – Yohji did not like his hands naked, not even when he went out – and the unavoidable green sunshades. His bleach-blond hair a bright halo about his narrow face, he shimmered and dazzled, a slim, tall shadow on the light-drenched street. Aya had seen him leave and knew that he wore a single small gold hoop in one earlobe, discreet yet decidedly non-conformist.

Where the hell was he going, turned out like that? A date? A special date, Aya was sure by now, because Yohji had only laughed, passed a hand through his honey-blond mane, and refused to answer Aya's terse question.

xxx

Aya knew that Yohji had been wearing his watch, too, hidden beneath the soft cuff of his glove. Yohji should have told him where he intended to go, if only so Aya could keep tabs on the blond… to keep him guarded, of course.

So that Aya would not have to spend a sleepless night sitting on the tatami floor by his bedroom window, watching the empty, rainy street, a heaviness in his chest that he stubbornly refused to acknowledge.

Aya swallowed a sigh and pressed his lips together in a hard, bitter line. Yohji, easy to love and difficult to hold on to… always moving, slippery like a fish… sliding through between Aya's fingers… and Yohji had just smiled, green eyes full of shadows and light, pleading and adoring and deep down, almost despairing.

Three words, Ayan… three words, and the world will stop 'cos I'll stop it for you…

And as always, Aya had panicked and fled the room.

xxx

Startled from an uneasy doze, Aya lifts his head and straightens his back, muscles cold and sore from his uncomfortably hunched position. He blinks into the vaguely grey light of dawn that filters through the blinds, and sends his senses hunting for whatever hauled him back into reality.

There. A pale figure lurching along the wall of the house opposite. Unsteady, dragging steps, a soft hum in a familiar voice, trying to mimick the tune of some pop song…

Shit, Aya thinks fiercely, rising to his feet, shit but I hate him…

xxx

Yohji has lost his blazer somewhere he cannot remember, and he fairly falls into Aya's embrace when the latter yanks the door to the house open. Aya catches, holds him tight and close, heart thumping whether he likes it or not. Yohji is laughing in a drunken, silly way, and he is sobbing at the same time for no particular reason while Aya hauls him inside and locks the door, Yohji's slack form draped all over Aya's trim frame.

Aya feels brave now that he thinks Yohji is more or less incapacitated. All that studied ease gone, burned away with booze and whatever else he has downed that night, as he hangs heavily on to Aya. Who drags him along to the stairs. Yohji gropes for the bannister, misses a couple of times, laughs again and grabs Aya's arm instead, his tousled, smoke-drenched blond head lolling against Aya's flushed neck.

Aya steals a kiss, pale lips touching the top of Yohji's head in a quick, greedy way. He feels between his legs what he really wants to do with Yohji.

Yohji smells of smoke and booze and rain. His hair a little damp and cool, his skin hot and sweaty. He would have been dancing, Aya thinks jealously. Rocking in the rhythm of the beat because Yohji cannot help it, he has to dance, drink, and enjoy life until he had his fill, it all gets too much, and he crashes, burned out and utterly exhausted once again.

Yohji moves in relentless cycles of crash and burn and resurrect. Predictable, energetic, resilient, and utterly desirable in his raw lust for life.

Aya does not hesitate when they reach the upper floor. He bypasses the door to Yohji's den and bundles the blond into his own room instead. Dumps him onto the clean, crisp whiteness of his futon and scoots down onto his knees to begin undress him. Sliding his hands over smooth honeyed flesh, touching, learning, feeling.

Feeling.

Almost overwhelmed by the onslaught of sensations, Aya closes his eyes and deeply breathes in Yohji's sharp aroma. It is not a clean scent, but one that reeks of sin and recklessness. Aya pulls off Yohji's clothes without compunction, stripping him stark naked, long amber limbs a tempting contrast to the flawless cotton sheets.

Yohji is babbling, laughing again, wincing when Aya's hands scrape over his ribs. He is ticklish, and Aya allows himself a tiny smile now that Yohji cannot possibly register what is happening.

Yohji's groin is soft; he is way too drunk to rise to anything right now. Aya kneels by his side, bracing his arms to either side of the sun-kissed head, studying the relaxed, smiling features, those bleary green eyes that look up at him with an expression of blank trust. All sharpness gone, all alertness wiped out, Yohji's killer instincts blunted and obliterated by drink, leaving him open to anything anyone wanted to do to him.

Something wrenches in Aya's chest, and he draws a gasping breath.

"Aya," Yohji mumbles, a droplet of drool trailing down from the corner of his mouth, over his cheek that is slightly scratchy with stubble now, as Aya finds out when he dives in to catch the drop with his tongue.

"Hm," Aya grunts softly, licking his way up to Yohji's mouth, drinking in his booze-laced breath before eating at his lips. Chewing them gently, nudging his tongue between them, into Yohji's willingly opening mouth.

Yohji's eyes close, his arms sprawl out wide, his legs open...

Slut, it crosses Aya's mind as he rolls between Yohji's thighs. He deepens the kiss that tastes of alcohol and tobacco, along with something else, cloying and sharp, until Yohji chortles for breath, and Aya pushes in to where he longs to be. No fuss needed, for when Yohji is drunk like this, he is also utterly relaxed, his body welcoming, all tension washed away by his stupor.

Aya is using him. He knows it, he does it anyway. Because when Yohji is like this, Aya feels less lost, less lacking, and more in control of what is going on between them.

The loosely tied yukata that had begun to slip when Aya caught Yohji, now falls open completely as Aya moves, breaking the kiss to watch Yohji's face.

Aya is hungry. He is ravenous. Yet where he would fight Yohji down if the blond were capable of struggling, he now takes care not to bruise. He yearns to see Yohji melt. He longs to see those handsome features swept with lust and pleasure, and to know that he can make Yohji feel like this, all by himself, without guidance, coaxing, or effort.

Without the persistent, nagging fear that Yohji might not be quite honest, that he might get off thinking of something, someone other than Aya when they sleep with one another. That he might be faking it.

Yohji tilts up his hips to offer Aya better access, and claws his hands into the bedding when Aya slowly sinks home. Yohji sucks his lower lip between his teeth, his eyes squeeze shut, and his breath comes in ragged little puffs through his nostrils as he tosses his head back and forth in the rhythm of Aya's motions. Propped on one elbow, Aya strokes him inside and out, watching him eagerly...

Feeling him firm up a little, trying to shove back, and then suddenly lose it in a shuddering, sluggish wave. Yohji groans and keens softly. Aya pushes some more and leans in to press his ear against Yohji's lips, hoping madly to hear what he hankers for as he tenses with the familiar knot of heat tightening low in his belly. And then he cannot hold out any longer and nails Yohji to the futon.

For a small eternity, they are frozen in time.

Until at last, Yohji's body slackens beneath Aya, thighs falling open wider, legs stretching out as he goes limp with a long, soft sigh. "Ay... Ran..."

Aya sags, feeling deflated. "Aya," he breathes harshly between those moist lips. "I am Aya."

Yohji sucks in a quick breath and begins to tense, muscles seizing up, ready to spring. Aya carefully rolls off him, tugs the comforter up over both of them, and rakes a small, hard hand through messy bleached bangs. "Stop wriggling. Sleep," he orders quietly, unable to keep disappointment and anger out of his tone.

Yohji blinks up at him, confusion in his gaze as he obviously makes an effort to get a grasp on reality. "Ahhh... Aya." His voice oddly bland as he begins to sober up rather fast.

"Yesss," Aya hisses, settling by his side and clamping an arm and a leg across Yohji's prone form. "Aya."

And Yohji lies utterly still.

Aya has almost dropped off when, at the edge of his consciousness, he registers a touch... Long, heavy fingers slipping over his arm, cupping his neck... he should be screaming murder by now, what if this grip tightened, hard enough to choke the living breath out of him... But those fingers move on to lace into his mussed hair and caress the back of his head, gently pulling him close.

So very close.

To nestle his face into the crook of Yohji's neck, whose shoulder nudges Aya's chest as he turns and hugs Aya close, wrapping him into pulsing warmth, filled with the smells of sex and life and love.

"Aya," Yohji murmurs, softly massaging Aya's scalp. "Aya..."

Aya draws a long, shivering breath as he feels a weight lift off his heart, and his lips curve in a barely-there smile as he lets himself sink away. To sleep. Dreamless, restful, in Yohji's arms.

And right then, it does not matter where Yohji had spent the night.  
For he is safe now.

xxx

**The End**


End file.
